


you see the sign and the sign says leave here

by scenedenial



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anger, Angry Sex, Begging, Choking, Complex Adult Emotions, Crying During Sex, Fighting, Hickeys, It’s not especially nice, M/M, NOT noncon, Pain Thing, Rough Sex, Yelling, sort of turns into make up sex, they should just.....talk about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 14:06:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17664059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scenedenial/pseuds/scenedenial
Summary: “You want me to touch you, huh?” The words come out a growl. Timothée’s bottom lip falls.





	you see the sign and the sign says leave here

**Author's Note:**

> A work of fiction per usual!!!!!!!

Timothée crosses his arms and throws himself back onto the couch, so petulant and childish with his bleak, intensive stare that Armie wants to laugh or yell or both. 

“You don’t love me as much as I love you.” Timothée says. It sounds calculated, like he’s just been working up the nerve to say it. And, okay, that makes Armie _mad_ mad, makes his shoulders knot up all unpleasant, because, _fuck_. 

Because last year when Timmy needed his wisdom teeth pulled, Armie came up for the whole damn week and sat in the waiting room and drove him home while he tripped balls on morphine and made pudding and jello and read aloud and held him in bed while he cried that it hurt. Because when Timmy had been so drunk and wiped one night of the Beautiful Boy press junket, in the blessed span of days where his whereabouts overlapped well enough with Armie’s, he’d pissed the bed with Armie still in it and Armie had cleaned it up without a word. Because Armie can rattle off Timothée’s top ten restaurants of New York, his favorite 00’s rap albums, his biggest fears and most errant pet peeves, without hardly thinking about it. Because Armie has undressed Timmy, scrap by sleeve by button, and licked him down all over. Because Timothée himself said, just days ago with his hair shower-wet and his body damp and naked between crisp sheets, _look, you know me better than I know myself_. 

Because it’s not fucking fair, really. Because Armie would fucking _die_ for Timothée, because he would willingly be put in jail for life, because he would commit atrocities just to hold that boy’s face between his palms and breathe him in. And because Timothée knows that. 

“Fuck off. You’re a fucking asshole.” And Armie would be lying if he said that the way Timothée’s face crumpled at that—like a marionette let off the strings—didn’t break his heart. 

“Oh, yeah? Why am I the asshole here? Explain that to me.” Timothée is glaring. God, he can be fucking _ferocious_ when he wants to, but Armie towers above him anyways. It still takes a conscious effort to keep his voice from coming out all thin and shaky. 

“You know that’s not fucking true. What you said.”

“Oh, what I said about you not fucking loving me?”

“Yeah, you immature shit. That.” And maybe Armie took it too far there, because age is already a point of contention that makes the air in their apartment thick if Timothée gets to thinking about it too long. (Chewing on his thumb, fretting noticeably until Armie asks if he’s okay, a forceful burst of anxious murmuring: _you’ll find someone older, better, more-more—someone who gets you more, someone who can, I don’t know, have your kids_. Never fucking mind that Armie doesn’t even think he wants kids unless they have Timothée’s eyes.) 

“I just feel like it’s true.” Timothée’s fists are clenched; he’s settled in. There’s not even a _point_ in arguing this now. Armie digs the heels of his palms into the aching sockets of his eyes.

“You know what? Think what you will. I’m out.”

Timothée’s composure almost breaks like china; Armie understands him well enough to see that in the muscles of his face and neck. 

But Armie turns anyways, walks out of the bedroom and out of the door of the apartment, letting it slam with a crack behind him. 

He gets shitfaced. It’s uneventful. 

It culminates with Armie puking in the gutter in the drizzling January rain, feeling miserable and pulled inside-out. He stares into a crack in the sidewalk and thinks of Timothée’s fingers splitting open a too-ripe peach. He thinks of the concrete opening up and swallowing him whole. He calls an Uber and doesn’t even open his eyes for the drive home. His phone buzzes in his pocket but he’s willing to bet that it isn’t the one person he wants it to be. 

The apartment is dark when he’s finally able to fumble his key into the lock, swaying in the cold entryway. His footsteps sound jarringly heavy—Frankenstein’s monster-esque thuds. He fills a glass of water at the sink and drains it in one go, eyes sticky and heavy with want of sleep. There’s no sound apart from the discordant shifts of his body in Nike trainers and a soaked-through wool coat. 

To the bathroom, to brush his teeth and rake a wet hand over his face and drop his clothes, save for his boxer shorts (a stocking stuffer from Timothée, red with tiny black hearts dotted over the fabric), in a damp huddle on the floor. Timmy hates when he does that. Timmy hates green peppers and boxed mac and cheese. Timmy hates when Armie gets tipsy and raises his voice at strangers in public. Timmy hates when lights are left on, and no matter how many times he’s brought that up, Armie can’t seem to get the hang of remembering to switch them off. 

Sleeping on the couch would be a viable option, expect by now Armie has been leached of every ounce of bitter anger he’d felt and, _fuck_. He feels sick and dizzy and he just wants his boyfriend to hold him.

Timothée is asleep when Armie eases the door to their bedroom open. The duvet is pulled up to his chin, his fist knotted tightly in the top of it, and when Armie comes nearer he can see the dark spots on the pillow that are damp to the touch. _Fuck._

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, probably too loud; he can’t regulate his volume on a good day. “I’m an idiot.” 

Armie has to shift Timothée’s sprawling limbs over on the mattress in order to crawl in next to him, and he feels bad about it. He feels worse when he discovers that the shirt Timmy is wearing is one of Armie’s own, gaping into holes at the neckline and under the armpits from being worn and washed countless times over the last decade. Timmy loves that goddamn shirt. 

Armie doesn’t sprawl an arm over Timothée’s waist like he usually does; that feels like a violation at this moment. Instead, he rolls away from the sleeping frame next to him and stares into the darkness, stomach roiling with nausea and guilt, until sleep comes over him like a vice. 

Armie wakes up to Timothée shaking his arm. His mouth tastes like dog shit and spoilt Chinese takeout. He tries to keep it closed, for Timmy’s sake. 

“I know you’re awake, Armie.”

Armie grunts, rubs a hand over his face and squints into the low sunlight. 

“I’m not.”

The mattress shifts as Timothée scrambles up until he’s sitting against the headboard. Armie cracks an eye again, sees Timothée’s long, white leg stretching over the duvet. He wants to kiss it. He doesn’t feel like he can. 

“Are you gonna puke?” Armie’s eyes are back to closed, but he can _hear_ Timothée crossing his arms. “You smell like a barroom floor.”

“I don’t know.” 

“Don’t do it in here.”

“I’m not _going_ to.” 

“Fuck, Armie.” Timothée shrugs his shoulders up towards his ears, like he has to protect himself against this. That makes Armie more nauseous than the vodka in his belly. “Don’t yell at me.”

“I’m...not.”

It’s chokingly tense in the room, unbearable with Timmy looking down at Armie like he’s a stranger. 

“Whatever.” Timothée finally says, slipping down off the bed and pulling jeans on over his slept-in boxers in an angry rush of motion. “I’m getting coffee.”

Armie lays in bed and stares at the ceiling. Timothée doesn’t slam the door when he walks out. 

He finally pulls himself out of bed to shower and stare at his cratered, hungover eyes in the mirror and force down a glass of water and three ibuprofen. The clock ticks past noon. Timothée stays gone. 

Armie forces himself to pay attention through half of an episode of _Masterchef_ , gives up when it proves incapable of distracting him. He’s laying down on the couch with an arm thrown over his eyes when the key sounds in the lock. 

“Look, Armie.” Timothée hasn’t even stepped inside before it starts. His voice is raised several decibles; Armie knows it’s audible through the thin apartment walls. “I don’t give a fuck if you won’t touch me in public, alright, just—“

“Wait.” Armie sits up, raises a palm to cut him off. Timothée is wearing a red knit cap and clutching a paper coffee cup between his palms. His voice quivers. “What the hell are you talking about?

Timothée snorts, incredulous. 

“Don’t pretend. You don’t kiss me. You don’t hold my hand.”

Armie stammers, nothing traveling in the freeway between his brain and his mouth. 

“You _don’t_.” Timothée clutches the cup tighter; Armie can see it give way under his thin fingers. His voice rises, a sharp, grating plea. “You don’t _touch_ me and you don’t text when you say you will and you don’t _talk_ to me when you’re upset and I do _all_ those things and—“

He stops talking when Armie stands up. Armie just wants him to _shut up_ and stop _speaking_ like this and blind, welling frustration carries him to the door in two long strides. His hand closes on Timothée’s neck before he has time to think about it. The coffee cup clatters to the floor between them. 

“You want me to touch you, huh?” The words come out a growl. Timothée’s bottom lip falls. 

The air stills between them; Armie doesn’t dare inhale.

When Timothée grabs his dick, it’s like a kick in the stomach. When Timothée grabs his dick, it’s like the disc of the movie of their life has scratched and skipped. 

“I thought so.” Timothée says, and his voice is cool and razor-sharp. A shiver runs down Armie’s vertebrae. 

“You—“ Armie starts, but then Timothée’s mouth is on his, tasting like stale coffee and cigarettes (was he _smoking_?) and so, so warm and wet that Armie can’t help but fall down into it. His hand tightens around Timothée’s throat, feeling for the bob of his Adam’s apple, the jut of his carved-out jaw. Timothée chokes into Armie’s mouth. 

He’s fucking pliant in Armie’s hands; he’s always been fucking pliant. His heart beats into Armie’s palm, tongue shoving hard into Armie’s mouth.

“Show me.” Timothée mutters when they break apart.

“What?”

“ _Show_ me.” Timothée presses the heel of his hand into Armie’s cock too hard, and Armie thinks he gets it. 

Armie shoves him rough into the wall in the hallway and undoes his jeans, tearing them down over his skinny thighs. The hat is off, his hair a dark tangle that Armie shoves his hand into. Timothée gasps and bares his teeth and shoves Armie in the chest with an open hand. Armie half-drags him the rest of the way to the bedroom, an arm around his waist as Timothée gets his teeth into Armie’s neck and sucks out a hickey deep into the skin there. 

They stumble over a pile of clothes, a pillow on the bedroom floor. Timothée kicks his way out of his jeans, swears, tugs on Armie’s shirt. Armie is sweating, thrumming with adrenaline.

“You’re so fucking stupid, T.” He crashes his mouth down to Timothée’s gaping, ruddy lips. “You’re so fucking stupid for thinking I don’t want you.” He gets an arm under Timothée’s ass, hikes him up, going weak at the feeling of his legs wrapping his waist like a bride’s. “For thinking I don’t _need_ you.”

Timothée moans, drops his head back so far that his collarbones jut out. Armie bites down hard on the exposed skin. 

“Prove it.” Timothée gasps. “Prove. It.”

Armie’s hard. Too hard from this, from the feeling of the muscles in Timothee’s neck straining under his fingers, from the tooth marks in his skin, from the way he glares at Armie with his cock stiff and heavy in his boxers. 

He shoves Timothée backwards onto the bed and scrambles out of his sweats and t-shirt quick. Timothée feels so little and lithe under him, his hips rocking up into Armie’s torso, grabby fingers scraping over the skin of his back. 

“You think you’re so fucking smart.” Armie hisses it into the soft, secret place under Timothée’s ear as he shoves one hand down his pint-sized boxers. “You have no clue how I feel about you. Don’t fucking act like you know.”

“ _Uh._ ” Timothée grunts, pushes up into Armie’s hand, face red, ears red, eyes red. His lashes are wet and clumped, popping out dark and pretty against the white and purple of the skin around his eyes. Armie laps at the darkness under them with the tip of his tongue. Salty, delicate skin. 

“Show me.” Timothée says again, like a mantra, like a prayer, and Armie sits back to tug Timothée’s boxers off and push his thighs apart with a hand on the inside of each. 

“This what you want?” 

Timothée nods and nods. His eyes are wet. Armie’s stomach pools with heat as he drops his head to mouth at Timothée’s shin.

Armie fucks Timothée open on his fingers half-dry, watching his face, watching his eyes screw up and salt leak down into his ears and listening to him beg and beg and beg until Armie finally shuffles out of his own boxers and shoves up between his thighs.

“Just. Please.” Timothée’s thighs are flat to the bed, knees out, his hands scrabbling on Armie’s hips. “C’mon.”

Armie leans down, sucks on Timothée’s tongue, then grabs for the lube that’s landed at his shoulder in the crumpled sheets. Timothée’s hand flies up to close around his wrist. 

“No. Fuck me like this.”

Armie shakes his head, shoves Timothée’s thigh up further. The lube runs messy down his hand when he snaps it open. 

“No, fuck no. Do you want this to fucking hurt?”

Timothée sobs aloud, throws an arm over his eyes and hitches his chest and torso up into the air like he’s being whipped. 

“ _Yes._ ” His voice breaks hard. “Please.”

It’s not like Armie doesn’t understand it. It’s not like he doesn’t see the desperation in the lines of Timothée’s body. But he can’t. He rubs a thumb over Timothée’s knee, trying in vain to tell him without telling him; _you are the light I needed all along_.

Timothée doesn’t beg further, just hisses quiet at the cold drip of the lube down his perineum, tears glossing his lashes. He goes silent and still as Armie nudges the head of his cock against the soft pucker of his ass. 

The initial push is just as slow and tight and hot as it always is, and Timothée grabs at Armie’s forearms and pulls him close, his dark head lolling back against white sheets. His mouth looks dark and bruised; there are tracks of saltwater down his bright, burning cheeks. 

Armie isn’t regulating the speed of his thrusts, just hoists Timothée’s thighs (thighs that look so fucking white and erotic in Armie’s hands that nearly wrap them) up and gives it to him hard. 

Armie _loves him loves him loves him_. 

Fuck him for even imagining otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope u guys liked that at least a little! As always I luv luv luv seeing ur comments <3


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